


The Stroke of a Pen

by A_Big_Old_Skeleton



Category: Hitman (Video Games), She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Action & Romance, Another video game crossover, Come with me and you'll be in a woooooorld of pure assassination, Espionage, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:27:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29030181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Big_Old_Skeleton/pseuds/A_Big_Old_Skeleton
Summary: A long time ago, a faceless entity signed off on something.Years later, that pen's stroke will destroy an empire.
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 27





	1. The Second Domino Falls

**Author's Note:**

> Oh no something happened to my brain and this fell out. This here's just a short prologue.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The scene is set.

A nervous-looking man in a charcoal grey suit paced impatiently back and forth in an ornate stone gazebo, occasionally pausing in his pacing to look out over the river overlooking the palace grounds. He was so caught up in his concerns that he didn’t notice he had company until she coughed politely behind him. 

“Ah! It’s you!”

His visitor, a woman of average height and lithe frame, wearing a long navy coat and high turtleneck, seemed unamused. “Yes. It’s me.”

The man seemed unable to meet the woman’s mismatched eyes for too long - something about the intensity of her gaze seemed to unnerve him. “I, er… take it that your presence here means…?”

“That the job’s done? Yes, Viktor, the job’s done.” There was no outward sign of impatience or even hostility in her bearing, but there may have been something walking the line between amusement and contempt in her eyes.

Viktor found himself scrambling to regain some kind of control over the situation. He was, after all, no stranger to gladhanding. His back straightened and he whistled. “I have to admit, I’m impressed. You have to understand that when someone shows up and makes the kind of claims you made, a little skepticism is healthy.”

Now there was _definitely_ amusement in her eyes. “Of course, I understand completely. I’ll confess, it was something of a tall order. However, I think you’ll find that your little problem is taken care of.”

“And the files?”

“Gone. The only existing copy should make its way to you shortly. I would check tomorrow’s paper if you want more news about what happened to the lead investigator. Tragic, really - the poor man’s guilt over the betrayal of his countrymen finally proved too much to bear.” The woman held out a gloved hand expectantly. “And now that I’ve done my part, it’s time for you to do yours, don’t you think?”

“Ah, of course.” Viktor gave a toothy smile as a file was held up and waggled back and forth with evident delight. “The secrets of the global elite, all in one convenient place. The apex of my organization’s efforts, if I do say so myself.”

“A small price to pay for the security of your future, don’t you think?” The woman smiled now, a canine flashing in the twilight. “Now run along, Viktor. I’m sure you have lots of pretty dresses to attend to, eh?” The speaker turned away, pulling a phone from her pocket and typing out two messages. 

  * _Package secured. Leak the list as discussed._



Even though she’d very clearly dismissed him, Viktor lingered for half a second before voicing one last concern. “And… you’re sure that I’m in the clear?”

“Of course,” the woman soothed, placing a hand over her heart “I promise you Viktor, you are about to find yourself quite free of any further investigations. The only thing people will be talking about moving forward is the show you’re about to put on.” She gave another grin that walked along the line of deep amusement. “ I’m sure it will be one to remember.”

Viktor smiled with the confidence of someone who never faced consequence in their lives, finally feeling reassured. He walked off, leaving the woman in the deepening gloam.

The woman watched him go with no expression. Then she pulled her phone out and sent another text. 

  * _No loose ends_



The next morning, in a modest, well-furnished apartment halfway across the globe, a chime sounded on a phone. The phone rested on a coffee table, where a woman with close-cropped blonde hair sat reading a morning newspaper. Piercing blue eyes regarded the text displayed on the phone screen for a moment, and then the woman stood and began packing. Her movements were fluid, efficient, without the slightest wasted movement. A printer hummed to life and printed out a boarding pass. She retrieved it, took a moment to fold it carefully and place it in an inner pocket on her suit coat, and wheeled her luggage out the door. Four hours later, she was in the air on the way to Paris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet, just how it should be. The beginning of this strange experiment. You get to watch me pull these different elements together and whip them into something resembling a narrative! Isn't that exciting?
> 
> Lord, I hope it's exciting.


	2. Preparation: Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agent 47 arrives in Paris, learns her targets, and makes some preparations.

A cool, professional voice sounded on the other end of a phone line. “Good morning, 47. I trust the flight was comfortable?”

The blonde was focused on her current task, which in this case involved unpacking a well-tailored suit from her luggage and hanging it up to smooth any wrinkles out caused by transit. She paused for a moment and considered the question for half a second before replying. “It was no different than any other flight.”

There was a hint of amusement on the other line. “We still need to work on your small talk skills, I see.”

“My small talk skills are up to the task when required.” 47 responded, her tone neutral. 

“Of course. How is Paris?”

“Sunny. A little warmer than normal for this time of year. The sightline from the hotel to the palace is clear.”

“This job will call for a more… personal touch, I’m afraid. The client this time is MI6, and they are very insistent that no obvious foul play is on display for this job.”

“A little more challenging,” 47 said, reflexively running her hand over the back of her head where a barcode tattoo could still be seen peaking through her hair, “but nothing I haven’t handled before. What’s the job?”

“Viktor Novikov and Dahlia Margolis - a fashion designer and former supermodel, respectively, with a rather unusual side-business. Namely, the seeking and selling of state secrets and other classified information. They recruit up-and-coming models who act as agents, either sniffing out information or setting up opportunities for blackmail, and sell the secrets to the highest bidder. We suspect that this is the brainchild of Margolis due to her own experience as an agent for Mossad, but Novikov’s particular brand of blackmailing, strongarming capitalism along with his relatively recent purchase of the Sanguine fashion line gives her exceptionally good cover to operate. It’s a match made in heaven, as they say.”

47  _ hmmed  _ to herself and began stowing other pieces of clothing in the hotel wardrobe. “Interesting. What did they do to run afoul of British Intelligence?”

“The state secrets this time happen to be a list of all currently active MI6 intelligence assets. Not the sort of thing they want out in public, and certainly not the sort of thing they’d want to have up for auction - which is precisely what is going to take place in two day’s time during the Sanguine fashion show. Security is expected to be tight, and both Viktor and Dhalia will be in the building - we expect Dhalia will handle the auction side of things, while Viktor sees to the running of the fashion show itself. You should have a copy of the palace blueprints and an invitation to the show waiting for you at the front desk, along with a few other tools you might find useful. I regret to inform you that we have not been able to secure an invitation to the auction itself at this time, but our people are working on it. I’ll keep you updated if that changes.”

47 paused in her motions. “I thought you said no guns.”

“While they would, of course,  _ prefer _ there not to be signs of obvious foul play, I don’t believe in sending you in naked, 47.”

“Not that sort of party, I suppose.” The line was delivered in the exact same tone as everything else, but this time there was a hint of a grin on 47’s face.

A laugh - quickly suppressed - sounded on the other end of the line. “Was that a  _ joke _ from you, Agent? Whatever’s next?”

“I’m going to take a walk. Scout the palace grounds a little. Get the lay of the land before the big show starts.” 47 stretched a little, frowning at a twinge in her back. Too much time sitting on an airplane, she thought.

Her handler’s exasperation was palpable. “That was a rhetorical- oh, I see what you’re doing. Alright smartass, I shall leave you to prepare.” 

The elevator down to the lobby was, 47 thought, a deathtrap. Old, prone to shaking, and just the sort of thing she’d fray the cables of in order to dispose of a target should they be foolish enough to take it. Which was why she took the stairs down, eyes drawn to good hiding spots, places to stash a body, sightlines of security cameras - all out of habit. There was not, in fact, a job to do in the hotel - if there had been, she would not be staying there for any length of time. But the voice of her former instructor was always whispering in her ear. 

_ You were created to be the perfect killer, Subject 47. You are a tool -  _ my  _ tool, to be wielded as I see fit. Your only purpose is to kill when I tell you to kill and to do so with perfection every time. I have granted you the skills to do this. You were a blank canvas upon which I have painted my masterpiece: an Apex Predator to end all else _ .

The ghost of a frown crossed 47’s face at the memory, and she shifted her focus to the sounds of conversation in the lobby as she stepped out of the stairwell. It always paid to listen in - the lives of others were not just a fine distraction, but occasionally revealed information that could come in useful down the line. Today, however, that was not the case - a few of the other hotel guests were, apparently, also in town for the show, but not to work at the show, unfortunately. One particularly chatty woman revealed herself to be a journalist, and 47 quickly memorized her face so as to avoid it in the future. Journalists, she’d found, tended to be a little too observant of their surroundings - and while 47 was experienced at blending into crowds, journalists made her nervous.

The weather was still overly warm for the time of year, and 47 found herself reaching for a handkerchief to mop a bit of sweat from her brow as she strode in the direction of the palace grounds. She was dressed as a tourist - shorts, a simple top, and most importantly, a compact digital camera. As she made her way down the city streets, she made a point of stopping to photograph anything that seemed interesting - and if a little more care and attention went into photographing the setup for the upcoming fashion show, well, nobody seemed to notice. The palace grounds were currently shut, as was explained to her by the very polite guards at the gates, to protect the public from being accidentally run down by delivery vehicles or assorted equipment.

She continued her tour of the area, and spotted several other potential points of entry - it seemed to her that it was possible to approach from the river, although in that case she assumed it would be best to make her entry in the night and merely hide out until the show started. Given the nature of the assignment, of course, it made no sense to do so - certainly not when she had an invitation to walk through the front door itself (a front door which she’d noticed to her satisfaction had no security cameras watching it, choosing instead to rely on guards). Making certain that her route back to the hotel gave her another view of the palace grounds, 47 returned to the hotel as night was beginning to fall. The concierge looked up as she approached the front desk.

“Adora Rieper. Were there any messages for me?”

The concierge smiled and scanned his desk for any notes. “Miss… Rieper, was it? Ah, yes. A package was delivered for you. It should be waiting for you in your room.”

“Thank you. One other question: when is breakfast served tomorrow?” 

“Breakfast is served from 6:00 - 10:00, Miss Rieper.”

“Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.” Retreating to her room, 47 took note of the medium-sized package laying on the bed before beginning a thorough casing of the room for any potential surveillance equipment. Satisfied by her investigation, she turned her attention to the package. Inside was a sleek black suitcase that 47 carefully lifted out. A small digital readout asked for a passcode, and she typed in the four-digit code (9-9-8-5). There was a beep from the case and another panel slid back, revealing a small scanner she placed her thumb on, which unlocked the case. 

Inside was a sleek chrome pistol fitted with a suppressor, along with a set of lockpicks, a fine fiber wire, and (perhaps most curiously) a small rubber pegasus next to a simple remote with a button. A note was stuck to the pegasus which read  _ In case you’re feeling particularly whimsical. I call him Swiftwind. - B _

47 snorted, but she took it out along with the lockpicks, wire, and the pistol. She inspected each item carefully - the lockpicks were a slightly newer sort than she was used to, but not too dissimilar. The fiber wire was flawless in its construction and razor thin. 47 privately doubted she’d have cause to use it at all, but it was always good to be prepared. The pistol she disassembled and reassembled several times, just to see if she could. Then she packed everything neatly back into the briefcase (save the lockpicks) and called the front desk for room service.

A short while later, she was dining on a modest meal, along with a glass of a wine that was surprisingly good. The whole time her eyes were fixed on the palace outside her window as she ran through her mentally assembled to-do list. There were a few other things to take care of before the show, but she had time. 

The next morning, 47 made sure to take full advantage of the complimentary breakfast service, made some phone calls to a few local catering services, and, when night had fallen, broke into the palace to get a better look at the place. This was not an activity she felt the need to share with her handler - not because she distrusted her, far from it; 47 had worked closely with Karen Moon (occasionally referred to as ‘Glimmer’ for reasons 47 had never bothered to learn but suspected had something to do with her hair) for over a decade, in the sort of tight-knit relationship the ICA liked to promote as a hallmark of their professional approach to the business of quiet (or loud! The customer was always right!) murder - but because Glimmer would be obliged to put it in the post-job performance review, and 47 knew how much the ICA frowned on unnecessary risk.

Breaking into the palace was a simple matter. 47 had studied the building plans closely and knew how best to approach unnoticed, her earlier trips past as a tourist had given ample photographs of surveillance camera placement, and her observations of the last day had delivered a working knowledge of guard patrols. She was dressed in all black, form-fitting gear suitable for cat burglary and silent intrusion, and ghosted around the palace for around an hour in relative peace. She also took the opportunity to arrange a few things to her liking - a trip to the staff locker room produced a server’s uniform that she stashed in an out-of-the way spot, just in case, and the maintenance shed produced a variety of tools which she made a mental note to visit if she found herself in need of a nice crowbar. The only other visible sign of her presence was the breaking of a latch on a gate leading to the river - just in case leaving through the front door at the conclusion of her business became ill-advised. 

As she re-entered her hotel room, a movement outside her window caught her eye. 47 cautiously made her way to the window for a closer look, and was somewhat relieved to see it had only been a brown cat making its way along the street, slinking in and out of the light as it stalked a prey she could only guess at. To 47’s surprise, the cat paused in its movement to look up at her, sensing her gaze. The two regarded one another for a moment until the cat decided that 47 was not a threat after all and continued on its way. 

47’s sleep was troubled that night, as fragments of a past she couldn’t remember floated through her head. There had been  _ something _ before the facility in Romania, she knew there had been, but it was all a haze. She got flashes - enough to know she hadn’t been alone, and that she’d been killing for a long time - since she was a teenager at  _ least _ \- but nothing else ever came to her except in dreams. This time, the dream was of a burning village and the sharp reports of rifle fire. She leapt from the roof of a low farmhouse, and sank two blades into the neck of a soldier. The soldiers were there for  _ her _ , she knew. Her and… someone else. Mismatched eyes floated on an indistinct face. A name - or a number - she’d planned an escape from… something. To somewhere. The dream ended with 47 captured by the hunters, dragged into the community’s central square to watch… something.

The dream fled almost instantly upon waking. 47 breakfasted again, made some polite small talk with a young couple visiting Paris on their first big getaway, and kept a wary eye out for the journalist. The afternoon was spent laying out her suit and preparing for the evening’s exertions. At five o’clock on the dot, a car service arrived for her. 47 stepped in and was whisked off to the palace (privately she considered this a waste of money, but Glimmer would counter that walking up to the front gate of a fancy event just simply wasn’t  _ done _ , and frankly taking a limo was  _ less _ suspicious. Then 47 would grudgingly admit she had a point, and Glimmer would look  _ smug _ and say something about how years of training and experience still hadn’t taught 47 to be  _ cultured _ , and 47 would, depending on her mood, cheerfully tell Glimmer to go fuck herself, or simply make a quiet harrumph noise. (it was usually a quiet harrumph, apart from one or two evenings where 47 had actually imbibed a sufficient amount of alcohol to become drunk)). 

The car pulled up to the entrance, and 47 stepped out. She was wearing a well-tailored black suit, with a white shirt and a blood red tie. That the suit jacket also had a slim, almost invisible holster for her pistol, along with pockets for the lockpicks, fiber wire, and (because who knew, she might actually find a reason to use it) exploding rubber unicorn was fortunately not obvious. She showed her invitation to the guard, who greeted Adora Rieper warmly and welcomed her to the Sanguine fashion show. 47 nodded and entered the palace, feeling a thrill run through her. This, she thought, was her purpose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're feeling it out, slowly but surely, you and I. The actual hit, man, comes next chapter - although I'll be honest and say that I did not actually plan this - I had intended to do the whole thing _this_ chapter, but instead I got a little into the weeds.
> 
> The thing about Hitman is that it is at its heart very silly - some of that silliness works narratively, but some is silly by dint of it having no actual tether to how people work. I am trying to keep the former while finding ways to explain the latter. Also, our 47 has slightly more of a personality than the one in the game. This should probably not surprise anyone. This weird experiment will continue for at least one more chapter, I guess!


	3. Putting on a Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 47 conducts some business and overhears a few interesting conversations. Glimmer demonstrates concern.

One of the most important things that 47 always prided herself on was the ability to improvise. As she lounged on the patio bar, she overheard a most interesting conversation.

“Unbelievable.”

“There a problem, Mister Decker?”

“No, Viktor just wants us to wait here until he sends a guard to fetch us. We’ll meet in the palace gardens to make the handover. Meanwhile we’re supposed to  _ enjoy  _ ourselves here, as if that were possible at a party that just screams New Money.”

“Didn’t figure you for a class snob.”

“I’m not. I just hate the nouveau riche.”

Adora looked down at her suit jacket, then over at one of the CICADA guards stationed at the door. She strolled back into the palace building and quietly slipped into a stairwell door. She listened carefully, and when she didn’t hear any movement, she moved quietly down to where she knew the security offices to be. A few minutes later, she strode out of the office, wearing the distinctive radio monitor and tie of the mercenary company. For added verisimilitude, she slung a rifle over her shoulder. The real magic, however, was her posture and movement: poised, confident, with just enough of a military gait to make it clear she was a competent bodyguard. She walked by other guards and gave them a curt nod, which they returned unquestioningly.

Mister Decker was still waiting out on the patio, just where she’d left him. 47 approached with a businesslike air. 

“Mister Decker? Mister Novikov will see you now. Follow me, please.”

Mister Decker’s bodyguard offered no resistance, nor did Mister Decker himself. They had, after all, been instructed to wait for a bodyguard - and here one was! 47 led them across the back gardens, taking note as she did so of a helicopter sitting on the lawn. The guards at the gates to the garden briefly stopped her, but all she had to do was explain that she was bringing Mister Decker to a meeting on Mister Novikov’s orders, and they waved her through.

For the entirety of the walk, 47 had made no attempt at small talk, and Decker had seemed willing to walk in silence as well. 47 had expected to need to say something once they reached the small stone pavilion, but Decker took the initiative.

“Hmpf, he’s not even here yet? I’ll call him.”

Before the phone call was complete, 47 had integrated herself into a patrol around the gardens, content to wait for Novikov to show up. It seemed to her that depending on what he was doing, the fact that he had  _ not _ , in fact, sent a bodyguard to collect Decker would probably not be an issue - and this time, the predictability of human nature won out. After about five minutes, she spotted Novikov making his way to the pavilion, and dropped out of the patrol route to conceal herself next to a nearby hedge. It was there that another,  _ very _ interesting conversation took place.

“How are things at the FSB, Max?”

“It almost feels like the Cold War again - division head commits suicide in a locked room, and a safe full of evidence is found tying him to the selling of state secrets to Langly itself! Honestly, I haven’t seen that sort of skullduggery since the early 90s, and  _ never _ so well-executed. Your man was very thorough. I don’t suppose you could introduce me to him?”

“My friend, believe me when I say that you do not actually want such an introduction. She is thorough, yes, but she’s… unsettling to work with. The sort of intensity that you do not wish to accidentally end up on the wrong side of, if that makes sense.”

Max seemed to take this warning seriously, as he immediately changed subjects. “Well, at any rate, here is a copy of everything Kamurov had on you - the  _ only _ copy, you’ll be pleased to know. A most unfortunate fire took place in our service room only yesterday, destroying the originals.”

“Ha! It is indeed just like the old days, is it not? You will find the money has already been wired to your account, as agreed. Enjoy your retirement, old friend.”

“Already in my account, you say?” Max’s voice carried a joking tone masking very real worry. “Should I be contacting my banker in Switzerland for a clandestine way to store these funds?”

“Please, Max, haven’t you heard the news? I am a  _ most _ honest businessman these days. You have nothing to fear. Now, if you’ll excuse me… I’d like a moment alone to savor the moment.”

47 watched closely as Decker and his guard left. Novikov remained with his own personal guard, who, she saw with some surprise, was  _ dismissed _ . Sometimes the rich and powerful truly felt they had nothing to fear - a mistake that would cost Novikov dearly. 

Novikov, for his part, left the pavilion and wandered to the stone railing overlooking the Seine river. 47 crept up slowly, listening to him talk to himself about how this somehow made him more secure. She didn’t really pay attention. The prattling of some soon-to-be corpse who was unaware of his status as a soon-to-be corpse, feeling secure and unassailable in his fortunes. Glimmer often said that nobody was untouchable - Novikov discovered the truth of that statement seconds later as 47 snapped his neck and dumped his lifeless body into the river.

There was now, she knew, something of a timer on getting to Dahlia - eventually, someone would wonder where Viktor was, and when they failed to find him, they would naturally assume the worst. Fortunately, 47’s newfound status as a member of CICADA made her arrival on the top floor of the palace an almost laughably simple matter. One guard seemed to briefly look at her a bit more closely, as if he suspected something, but she merely quickened her pace and shifted her expression to one of barely-contained impatience.  _ I have somewhere to be _ , the face said,  _ and you know not to bother a fellow guard with somewhere to be. It could be urgent. _

When 47 stepped into the room holding the auction, she had to suppress a frown. How much blood was on the hands of the people in this room? How many had hired her in the past to clean up some mess? 47 was under no illusion that her own hands were clean - far from it - but since joining the ICA her hits had all been bad people - powerful people who hurt the less powerful. The contracts had to be  _ just _ . That was the guiding principle of her work, and Glimmer respected it enough to be judicious in the selection of her assignments. It made 47 feel better than the work she had done prior to her escape, and directly after - taking whatever jobs she could, killing just to keep a roof over her head - until the ICA had approached her and offered a different path.

Dhalia’s room, 47 knew, was directly connected to the auction area. The room was quiet when she entered, empty of any other guards or Dhalia - but 47 was certain this would be where the real work would get done - where Dhalia would likely return when she needed to have a private conversation. 47 took up a post nearby a window overlooking the fashion show runway, and waited.

It didn’t take long before Dhalia entered, just as 47 knew she would. She was accompanied by another guard who seemed to take 47’s presence in the room as a sign he could move elsewhere, and a man with whom Dhalia was engaged in conversation. 47 relaxed, running through her options. She could, of course, kill them both - but she tried to avoid collateral damage when she could, so the best method would be to distract the man, or call him away. Unfortunately, without further knowledge of who the man was, she could not come up with a suitable way to get him out of the room. So, she waited - and was witness to another interesting conversation.

“Be straight with me, what’s Viktor gone and done this time?”

“Gotten in way over his head again, what else?” Dhalia said, scorn dripping from her voice. “I am beginning to wonder if it is worth keeping him around, to be honest.”

“That bad, huh?”

Dhalia sighed. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“Try me.”

“Well, you know Viktor was involved in some… questionable business practices back in Russia, right?”

“Honey,  _ everyone _ knows that.”

“Yes, but the point is for whatever reason the Russian secret service was conducting an investigation. I don’t know what for, and frankly I don’t care - but Viktor was panicked. That’s when this woman approached him. Said she could make his troubles go away, nothing linking back to him, and all he had to do was hand over everything our organization’s ever collected on a select number of names and companies. Viktor, the idiot, agreed.”

“Wait,  _ everything? _ Including what people are currently bidding on out there?”

“To his credit, he at least refused to hand anything over until the woman delivered on her promises. Which to my surprise, she  _ did _ . Which meant Viktor had the option of either killing her and keeping our organization’s reputation intact, or…”

“Paying her as agreed.”

“Right. No prizes for guessing which option he took.” Dhalia shook her head. “Not that I can  _ entirely _ blame him. That woman gave me the distinct impression that any attempt to back out or kill her would’ve gone  _ very _ wrong.”

“You’ve done a background check on her, surely.”

“She didn’t give a name. Just contact info which - before you ask - was a burner phone tied to a dummy corporation in the name of a dead man who happened to have once been a business associate of Viktor’s. Can’t fault her sense of humor, that one.”

That got a whistle out of the man. “Impressive. Do you think-”

Dhalia held up a hand to forestall further conversation and pulled a phone out of her pocket. “Yes?”

The man seemed unperturbed by the interruption and walked into the bathroom. 47 had a moment of indecision, then shrugged and followed the man in. The man didn’t seem to notice her until she slammed his head into the wall, knocking him cold. She ran some water in the sink and made sure to splash plenty on the ground, then dragged the unconscious body into the puddle she’d created. 

Through the door, she could still hear the muffled sound of Dhalia’s phone conversation, and mentally thanked whoever was running the sound system for the show for blaring the music so loudly. She stepped back out of the bathroom and thought about the potential exits. Dhalia was looking out over the runway when 47 lifted her up and out the window in a fluid motion. Dhalia became quickly acquainted with the ground, causing cries of horror. 47 took a moment to kick at the window railing to loosen it and make it cant to the side, then slipped out the door and began walking back down the stairs. She ducked into a bathroom briefly to ditch the rifle and radio, then swapped back to the tie she’d arrived in.

A stream of attendees - some shell-shocked from what they’d seen, others merely confused and upset they were being made to leave the bar for some reason - flowed out the front gate, and Adora Rieper joined the throng. Nobody questioned her - nobody  _ could _ , the police were only just arriving as she began walking down the street, not bothering to find a cab. She opened her coat, loosened her tie, and put on a convincing display of looking like a businessman who’d just had an extremely long day and just wanted to be asleep now, thank you. She very pointedly did  _ not _ head directly back to her hotel, and instead found her way to a pleasant Lebanese restaurant she’d noticed on the way in. She ate her meal slowly, relishing the flavors, and sipped from a bottle of (extremely overpriced, she thought, but the food was cheap enough that she didn’t mind) water. The sun had completely set by the time 47 entered her hotel, where she could hear the journalist from before speaking excitedly on the phone.

“...cannot believe of all the times for Hawk to decide to experiment with his lenses he misses getting a shot of a suicide! I swear, that man’s either the luckiest guy on earth or the dumbest guy on earth. At least it meant the police didn’t confiscate our footage - he got some good shots of the aftermath, and I did a piece reporting from the runway as they were cordoning off the crime scene. Not really the story I was hoping for, but I’ll take it.”

By the time 47 made it to her room, her phone started ringing. She answered with a flat “Hello.”

“I am going to go out on a limb, 47, and assume that the news coming in from Paris is your doing.”

“It depends on the news.”

“A prominent ex-supermodel fell to her death during the Sanguine fashion show. You’ll be interested to know that police are currently searching for Viktor Novikov in relation to this accident - which some have decided is a suicide, though nobody’s quite certain - and been unable to find him. It seems that Novikov was last seen heading to the gardens next to the Seine, and then appears to have vanished. What the media don’t know is that Novikov was reportedly seen meeting with a member of the Russian FSB shortly before his bodyguards lost track of his whereabouts. Someone smells foul play, but not in the way that MI6 feared they would.  _ Well done _ , 47.”

“I’m glad you approve.”

“It could have done without such a… public display, but it rather does match the MO of the FSB, so that should please our client. The money has been wired to your account. Do take some time to enjoy the finer things for a while, would you?”

“If you insist. Any suggestions?”

“Just promise me you won’t go back to your safe house and train all damn day. You should find a nice beach, relax for a while!”

“A beach.”

“You’re already in France - book a flight to Greece, get some sun! See some sights! I was just talking with B- er, with a colleague about holiday plans, and  _ he _ mentioned that he’s planning for a ski trip later this year. Get out in the open air when you aren’t… you know,  _ working _ .”

47 smirked a little. “Tell Beauregard I’m sorry I couldn’t find a use for Swift Wind this time.”

“I wasn’t talking about-” Glimmer started to say, then sighed. “I’ll let him know. Just… think about taking a holiday, please? You’re no good to us if you end up burning out from working too hard.”

“It’s how I was raised.” 47 said, with no real emotion. “Having free time has always felt… strange.”

On the other end of the line, Glimmer frowned. It was the sort of frown she exclusively wore whenever the subject of 47’s history came up. “I know. You know I worry about you.”

“I know. I will… give the matter some thought.”

“Thank you, 47.”

There was a long pause, before 47 spoke again. “Talking about  _ holidays _ , huh?”

“Oh shut up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this is the part where I say "this is as far as we're going, for the moment" except deep down you and I both know that ain't true. But after a relatively quick ramp-up I think I need to spend a little more time thinking about the concept of downtime for 47, and also how to follow along with what our mysterious woman is up to. You know the one who's very obviously not Catra at all. Yep.
> 
> And yes, you may have noticed I'm taking enormous liberties with how disguises work and also with, you know, how to kill the targets - as far as I know you can't shove Dahlia through that particular window (there _is_ a way to throw her off a balcony, but that's not quite the same). The video game logic has to shift somewhere, and frankly I think it might be boring if I just narrated the mission stories over and over again. Hopefully my instincts are good and you all are willing to forgive my break from the way things go down in the game.
> 
> Thanks for reading, leaving kudos, and commenting! I am always nervous when I float one of these new ideas out there and it's nice to see they are finding something of an audience. Next stop is Sapienza, but it'll take a little while to get there. There's some other stories out there that will probably update again before this one, so SMASH THAT LIKE AND SUBSCRIBE BUTTON if you wanna keep up on whatever the hell I update next.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh nooooooo.
> 
> No promises this goes anywhere, although the last time I said that the damn thing took off. This more relies on the plot (I cannot fucking _believe_ this) of the Hitman: World of Assassination trilogy. That's right I am the Willy Wonka of throwing expired cans of spaghetti sauce and you are along for the ride until it stops. 
> 
> We'll at least get through Paris - that much I can assure you. Anything else is up in the air because I might decide this was a terrible idea and nuke it from orbit. I look forward to seeing this note in several months and laughing my ass off at how stupid I look now. It's a great excuse for me to keep playing Hitman levels though, in the interest of verisimilitude.


End file.
